


Is Close the Closest Star?

by Blackprose



Series: # Heart Script [2]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Brotherly Love, Christmas Fluff, Feel-good, Gift Giving, M/M, Minor Angst, Yooseven romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackprose/pseuds/Blackprose
Summary: Agent 707 never had anyone to spend Christmas with. This year's different.





	Is Close the Closest Star?

**Author's Note:**

> This is in the same universe as the slowburn multichapter yooseven AU I am writing where the RFA doesn't exist. You can read this as a standalone, but if you'd like to read the main work, [click here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11739111/chapters/26453457) I encourage it! :D
> 
> This happens around chapters 15-16 of the original story.

December 23rd, 5:23a.m.

Seven discovers it’s close to Christmas by the holiday banner on Tripter. He doesn’t like to theme his meme posting schedule to yearly holidays or events. If someone asked, he’d claim that it was to keep relevant in a discerning meme market, despite gaining nothing from this endeavour besides some attention. There’s a real reason he doesn’t like Christmas hidden in there, and it’s not wrapped up in holiday paper.

December 23rd, 7:07 p.m,

There’s a distinct feeling associated with Christmas. Seven imagines for most people it consists of warm fires, peppermint sweets, the crunch of wrapping paper, the smell of evergreen. He’s consumed countless Christmas movies, English and Korean. It’s not something he’s proud of. Christmas is an especially difficult time for him, and sometimes those useless emotions control him, lead him to his lumpy couch where he illegally streams holiday content until he wants to puke.

It’s the only real Christmas he’s ever experienced.

It’s also a busy time for agents working in the information extraction business. Holidays are like a current, dragging families together and washing old, bleached skeleton bones onto the shore, old family feuds that dominate discussions. Seven wouldn’t know personally, but he’s been asked to dig up some funky stuff in the past. Often, these requests deal with social media accounts of deceased family members, as the only thing that matters is whether or not Aunty or Uncle whomever private messaged a cousin about lending them money before their sudden and unfortunate passing.

The messiest things come from family members pushing their agendas. Seven always does his work and gets the information (or lack of) to Vanderwood, who takes it with mutterings about how useless these requests can be. Neither of them take joy in their work, but at least most of these requests don’t directly get anyone killed.

Or maybe they do. Seven doesn’t know what their families are like, and if his own serves as an example…

December 24th, 10:21a.m.

“What the hell are you wearing?”

“Oh. Uh,” Seven had completely forgotten he shoved his unruly hair into the Santa hat that Yoosung accidentally left in his car. His hair was getting in his face as he tried to focus, and he had stupidly brought the hat inside his apartment, setting it on his bed because it smelled like Yoosung’s strawberry shampoo. It wasn’t really a coherent thought when he tugged the hat over his head; it was more like a background process on a CPU, something that happens without the user directly influencing it. Just keeps the computer running. This was kind of like that; the hat smelled like Yoosung, got his hair out of his face, and helped him focus. A means to an end.

Vanderwood’s sentinel pose and disapproving stony gaze says they aren’t impressed.

Quickly, Seven yanks it off his head, red hair static charged and standing alert. Vanderwood narrows their eyes and pulls a handful of USB drives out of their pocket. Seven sucks in a breath. He wants to ask Vanderwood a christmas question, namely what their opinion of the holidays are, but he fully anticipates he’ll get the normal response: “We don’t talk about ourselves, remember?”

When the USBs clatter onto the desk, Seven deftly stands and forces the Santa hat on Vanderwood’s head, messing up that surprisingly soft long brown hair.

“Oh, Miss Vanderwood, you have the nicest hair,” Seven compliments, twirling his fingers around a strand as Vanderwood struggles to get away, voicing their annoyance in the form of expletives.

“Say ho, ho, ho!”

“Fuck off.”

December 24th, 9:51p.m.

One of the USBs isn’t even a job. Seven had spent more time than he wanted cracking into it because the password was absolutely absurd. When he does, he finds one file. Was this from Vanderwood? It’s not like them to be so lax with who they hand their jobs to. In the past year Seven has worked with them, all their files have been meticulously structured, and this doesn’t follow that standard.

The file opens to an open-source word processing software, and reads:

Merry Christmas, kid.

In the darkness of his windowless bedroom, Agent 707 sniffs and pulls the Santa hat down over his eyes.

December 25th, 7:34 p.m.

The home Saeran’s in went all out for Christmas. His social worker even took him shopping to choose an ugly christmas sweater. Seven never thought Saeran would agree to something like that, and he’s almost jealous he couldn’t get a matching one. It looks comfortable. As always, though, Saeran acts fairly indifferent about everything, even when Seven gleefully discovers the sweater lights up.

Seven’s slightly jealous up until the moment Saeran sheepishly hands him a wrapped present. It’s completely covered in zip ties, Christmas wrapping paper barely visible through multitudes of weaved plastic. There’s a lumpy sticker stuck to the zip ties, and it reads:

To: My brother

From: Saeran

Seven tries his best to hold in his stupid sentimentality until after he’s chopped off all the zip ties, which proves to take a long time. Saeran sits on the bed, using Seven’s phone to scroll through some website or another. 

Seven almost doesn’t want this moment to end. Saeran’s watching him warily through the corner of his eyes, even though he doesn’t make it obvious. Seven loves the attention. He loves the way he catches Saeran chewing his lip, like he’s nervous Seven might not like the present.

Zip ties gone, it’s a simple box with snowman wrapping paper. Seven weighs it in his palms; light, doesn’t wobble when he shakes it, a real enigma.

When Seven opens it, he runs his finger over the thread. It’s velvety. When Seven unravels it from the box, he discovers it’s unevenly made. There’s some knots here and there and missed sections, but it’s an intact scarf. Handmade by Saeran? Seven had no idea he was learning to knit.

“I love it,” Seven whispers hoarsely, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

December 25th, 12:00a.m.

Seven’s bundling up for the cold weather outside, wrapping his newly acquired scarf around his neck. Saeran’s hanging around the entrance to say goodbye, eyes darting to the doors. Seven isn’t really paying attention, he’s too wrapped up in the afterglow of Saeran’s gift. He never thought he’d be able to wear something from his brother, something made just for him. There’s a stupid grin on Seven’s face.

Saeran notices something outside the window and his eyes glint, a mischievous green sparkle before he’s pushing his brother out the door unceremoniously. Seven stutters and stumbles until he’s shoved up against the puffy winter coat of the person standing outside the door.

Soft, familiar laughter passes his ears.

“Saeran, you don’t have to throw him on me,” Yoosung chuckles. It reminds Seven of all the times he was genuinely suave for past jobs. Yoosung sounds much more confident than he looks; both handsome and adorable in his winter coat and knitted hat.

“H-hey cutie,” Seven stutters, shooting his brother a death glare over his shoulder as the door to the home shuts silently. “W-whatcha doing here?”

“You invited me?”

“I-wha?”

With his mitts, Yoosung fumbles around in his pocket before flipping his phone open, showing Seven the text message. Seven reads it twice, then checks the sender information.

[Seven]: I’m almost done visiting Saeran. Meet me outside?

Fucking Saeran. Seven’s really got to get his brother his own cell phone so he stops texting Yoosung on behalf of Seven. Seven must look a mix between murderous and shocked, because Yoosung flips the phone shut with a sheepish laugh.

“That wasn’t you, huh?” he says quietly.

“Uh, Saeran’s… I didn’t think he’d be like this,” Seven laughs, all nervous.

“Maybe he knows something.”

Trying to deny it is useless. Saeran was there the entire time; he saw the way they interacted with each other.

“Too smart for his own good… Listen, I... wait, why are you still in town?” Most of the students have already left for Christmas holiday. Seven can usually tell because his takeout orders take half the time to arrive with less people ordering the same cheap Chinese food he’s buying.

“Had labs to finish. Told my mom I’d take the train in late, and…” Yoosung stares down at the snowflake pattern on his mittens. Seven watches the way purples eyes drag away from the ground to the darkly blue sky above them, a thought written on his face. Yoosung’s thinking intently on something. Seven decides to give him a chance to process it as he gently places his hands over Yoosung’s mitts, cold and wet with falling snow. It gives Yoosung some type of courage, because he starts to fish around in his pockets, fumbling out a small present. It’s barely bigger than Seven’s palm, clumsily wrapped and soft underneath the wrapping paper. Seven stares at it, then looks at Yoosung. Purple eyes, pensive and uncertain, peer back at him.

“I, uh, I d-don’t know if you’ll like it…”

It’s chilly outside. Seven’s fingers always ache in the worst way when exposed to the cold, probably due to years of constantly typing on the computer. Even so, Seven hunches his shoulders to maintain heat and leans against the door to the building, seeking shelter in the awning. He can’t reverently unwrap it like he did Saeran’s present, so he pokes a hole in it with his finger and twists. Whatever it is, it feels cold, which tells him absolutely nothing since it’s cold everywhere.

Yoosung readjusts that adorable knitted pom pom hat on his head, his blonde bangs poking out like they’re breaking free. Seven shares an awkward smile with Yoosung as he tears the wrapping off. Now, there’s a small glass star ornament sitting in his palm, a short chain dangling from it. The star catches the sparse dusk light with a luminescent shine as Seven rolls it in his palm. Seven silently marvels at his good fortune, receiving two gifts for Christmas among the years of zero friends or presents.

“R-read it.”

Seven does. In the center of the star, in small black letters read the words:

Our first Christmas.

“I… I don’t know if you have a tree, but I thought... maybe, kinda, that you had a tree, and if you d-didn’t then we can put it on my t-tree and… we’re kinda… this is a thing, so…”

Seven silences him with a cold hand on unreasonably warm, pink-tinted cheeks. Yoosung flinches, alight with nervous energy. His eyes dart around Seven’s face before they settle on his lips, curved into a gentle smile. Yoosung offers a smile of his own, elated and wide. Snow falls in heavy, wet flakes around them, the world sparkling and draped in white, their breath coming out in steam puffs wisping around them.

“Yeah,” Seven confirms, leaning in dangerously close to Yoosung’s face, golden eyes focused on pink lips. “We’re a thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat or buy me a [coffee](https://ko-fi.com/blackprose)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please read my other works!


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